


True North

by AdamantSteve



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: M/M, Movie Night, Pining, blowjob, derek doesn't want to be bonded, esp not to an annoying teenager, psychic link, research buddies, soulbonding, too bad, too bad Derek
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-23
Updated: 2014-03-23
Packaged: 2018-01-16 19:12:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,938
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1358722
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AdamantSteve/pseuds/AdamantSteve
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Derek senses that Stiles is his bonded as soon as he sees him in the woods. He doesn’t want to be bonded with anyone because that’s a terrible idea, so he avoids him. However, the bond won’t be so easily dissuaded…</p>
            </blockquote>





	True North

**Author's Note:**

> Huge thanks to Blisstory for helping me out with story and to Dunicha for betaing even though she's never really seen Teen Wolf! Thank you both so much :D

 

 

Much like everything in Derek’s life, meeting his bonded is not the technicolour dream it’s supposed to be. Not that he expected it would be, but really? Some scrawny kid with a buzzcut? Thanks, destiny.

 

It’s bullshit. Stupid bullshit, the whole thing. He kinda figured he was immune, or like, exempt from bonding, and it doesn’t even make sense that his bonded would be an un-turned human. Is he meant to turn him? Is there some kind of protocol here? 

 

Derek retreats into his tried and tested gruffness, which increasingly seems to be his default. The kid - Stiles - is best friends with shiny new werewolf Scott, and the two of them bumble around for months trying to figure shit out. Derek does his best to help Scott adapt whilst avoiding Stiles, which is nigh-on impossible since they stick to one another like glue, and Derek really doesn’t want to encourage this bond bullshit even if he does find himself drawn towards the kid; the most annoying human being on the planet.

 

The bond is like the pull of the moon but less controllable. Derek keeps finding himself walking through Stiles’ neighbourhood on the way to places, like he really needs to buy milk at two am from that _particular_ store that’s close to that _particular_ house. He doesn’t plan it consciously, but soon he’s so familiar with the cars and people around the area that if he were the kind of person to make friends with strangers, he’d’ve made friends with these strangers. As it is, he just creepily hangs around in the night listening to Stiles talk on the phone or sleep or jerk off. That last one is the worst and most addictive, and Derek truly hates his life. 

 

Anyway, even without all this bond stuff Derek has actual important crap to deal with: trying to build a pack, trying to not be convicted for murder, trying to live his goddamn life without all this shit but still; Stiles is as much a magnet for trouble as Derek is, so they end up falling into the same situations regardless of Derek quietly orbiting Stiles like a malcontent planet drawn to an irritating sun. 

 

He should move, really. Just pack up and GO but.

 _But_.

 

He can’t. And even if he doesn’t admit it to himself he knows underneath that the reason he can’t is that the bond is _real_ , and it will not be denied no matter how much Derek might try.

 

It’d be easier if Stiles was a Were; he’d just _know_ the same way that Derek does. As it is, Derek has to withstand Stiles pining after a variety of people in a variety of ways, each more grumble inducing than the last. He comes by smelling like girls - girls’ rooms, girls’ hair products, girls’ powdery makeup-y girliness and it presses at Derek’s resolve not to do anything, getting worse and worse til eventually he growls at Stiles and tells him to get the hell out, leave him the hell alone, go, go, go away.

 

“Fuck off!” he growls one day, and Stiles balks, looks like he’s about to piss his pants for a second right before he _laughs_. Right in Derek’s face, he laughs.

And then he rolls his eyes. 

 

And Derek’s resolve wears thinner and thinner, because Stiles should be scared! He’s seen first hand in all his unwarranted hangings around what Derek can do, what Derek HAS done, but he laughs and rolls his eyes like that because he knows that Derek’s incapable of harming him. 

 

That’s the only explanation. It’s not like Derek tries to be nice to the kid. Or has ever given him the impression that he _cares_. 

 

It’s all hopeless. 

 

Derek avoids Stiles as best he can, but these kids and their problems show up anyway. Usually it’s Scott with Stiles in tow or his hunter-lite girlfriend, or all three of them rocking up like to lay around doing homework. Derek acts pissed off, and he _is_ pissed off, but he doesn’t do anything about it. Derek’s not about to admit it, but having people around just kind of feels right.

 

It’s not the bond. It’s just... good to know that the trouble is _here_ rather than _out there_. It’s easier to keep his eye on things when those things are in his loft. 

 

That doesn’t explain why Stiles shows up on his own one day, though. 

 

Stiles grins, hustles past Derek and sits himself down, spreading his transferred girl smell all over everything.

 

“What are you doing?” 

 

“You told me to come over,” Stiles says, pulling his phone out of his pocket as if that means something. At Derek’s blank look, he frowns. “You texted me? Movie night? I was gonna bring microwaveable popcorn but then I remembered you uh, don’t have a microwave.”

 

Derek looks at Stiles like he grew a second head before remembering that this morning he woke up with cramp in his arm and his phone in his hand. 

 

His body is literally trying to ruin his life. Texting people in his sleep? Come on!

 

It would make no sense to explain that right now, and if he did try to explain it, it would require a _further_ explanation about bonding and how, oh by the way Stiles, you and me? Destined to be together forever. 

 

So. No.

 

Derek nods and tries to smile like a normal person, as if ‘movie night’ is something he would ever actually decide to orchestrate. The smiling just makes Stiles look at him weird before pulling out a stack of DVDs and gingerly sliding them across the old door supported on some bricks that serves as a makeshift coffee table. Derek’s trying to figure out how to surreptitiously check his phone to make sure sleep-Derek didn’t add any stupid little emojis or anything to the text when he notices what’s on the top of the stack.

 

“The Notebook?” 

 

Stiles shrugs and pulls a face as if he didn’t borrow them from Lydia on the way over; he smells of awkwardness and unrequited interest and hair serum. The rest of the movies are actually worse, so they end up _watching_ the damn thing.

 

Seriously, it’s not that the story struck a cord in Derek it’s just. Y’know. There’s all these parallels, kind of. Not really. Derek grumbles when it’s over and they’re both trying really hard not to look like they gave a shit when he stands up and goes to the bathroom to look in the mirror and remind himself that he’s a _fucking werewolf_ , ok? And stupid movies are stupid. And Stiles Stilinski is really stupid and should just go already and stop clogging up the air with his stupid emotions.

 

Except also _not_ go? Because ugh. 

 

It _feels_ right.

 

Ugghhh.

 

Stiles isn’t on the couch when he comes back in and Derek thinks for one way-too-panicked moment that he’s left, except there’s shuffling coming from the kitchen and the sound of the fridge door being opened…

 

Derek runs in but it’s too late - even as he slams the door closed a stench fills the room and they’re both gagging at the smell of a fridge that Derek’s never known to smell anything less than evil. The source of it may have been left over fried chicken at some point but Derek’s pretty sure it’s sentient at this point. 

 

“What the fuck?!” Stiles says between gasps that are theatrical even for him. “Warn a guy before you unleash an unholy science experiment on him would you?” 

 

Derek’s used to the Smell, though it’s really gross - he’s been debating whether he should man up and clean the thing or just buy a new one and bury this one a good twenty feet underground, but suddenly, Derek realises it smells _different_. _Less_ familiar. It’s the same bad smell but he’s sensing it in a different way.

 

Crap.

 

“You should go,” he tells Stiles.

 

Stiles stares blankly for a split second, and Derek thinks he might be about to say he can feel it too, that he’s, like, seeing himself through Derek’s eyes or whatever but then it’s broken and he’s gone, DVDs gathered up and out the door with a ‘Fine, dude. I gotta get home anyway.’ 

 

Once the door’s closed (and Derek takes great pains not to accidentally touch Stiles for fear of making this worse, he faceplants into the couch and groans. He’s gonna have to lock his phone and his laptop away before he goes to sleep, keep all writing implements in there too just to be safe. He’s imagining himself sleep-writing loveletters on the kitchen floor in ketchup when he realises that he has his face buried right where Stiles was sitting and has kinda been huffing the cushions. 

 

Derek jumps up and tosses them across the room in disgust. 

 

The next morning he doesn’t wake up with his phone in his hand but he is spooning a couch cushion. 

 

Derek glares at the thing like it’s personally betrayed him before slamming it back where it belongs and then decidedly _not_ sitting on it, subconsciously (or, well, completely and disgustingly consciously, really) mentally declaring it Stiles’ place and not wanting to ruin the smell.

 

Gross. 

 

-

 

Honestly, Derek’s surprised that Scott doesn’t pick up on something sooner. He’s known other wolves to be bonded, and as an onlooker it felt like there was some solid force that joined them together that he couldn’t really sense beyond just knowing it was there. Like gravity or magnetism. Scott ought to be able to sense something, but he never brings it up during their rare one on one training sessions. Scott never brings up Stiles at all now he comes to think of it. He chatters endlessly about his perfect pretty girlfriend, and sometimes smells like the Argent house, which is its own little world of nope, and it’s that tang of distant, painful familiarity that makes Derek pull back from asking after Stiles. Teenage love is dangerous enough as Derek well knows. Being bonded is terrifying in comparison.

 

So, Derek doesn’t ask after Stiles and he doesn’t call him or text him or send him a goddamn facebook message. The ketchup stays in the stinky fridge and Derek just kind of… ignores the problem. 

 

Maybe it’ll go away.

 

The bond stuff is pretty impossible to research online, and it’s not like Derek has much of a book collection of his own anymore, so he makes a last ditch attempt to find out something more concrete at the town library. Beacon Hills is a pretty wolfy place, so there’s actually a fair amount of stuff to look through. Derek holes himself up on a couch and pores over a stack of books with notepad in hand, jotting down anything that’s even vaguely relevant to bonding, bondmates and crucially, the breaking of said bonds. 

 

There’s not much, but there is the odd line here and there, and Derek finds himself smiling whenever he finds one. He always liked reading text books for school, not that he’d ever have admitted it at the time, of course. He’s kind of having a great time for a minute, before Stiles pops up from behind a bookshelf. 

 

“Derek!” 

 

The smile falls from his face as he glares back. “What are you doing here?” 

“You’re always so happy to see me, aren’t you?” Stiles says, grinning as he plops down in the chair beside him, ignoring Derek’s question. He pulls the book Derek’s reading toward himself so he can see the cover, at which he lights up in excitement. “Native American Wild Animal Lore, huh? Nice, I must’ve checked out this guy ten times.” He leans forward and pulls a book out of the stack by Derek’s feet. “You gotta cross reference with this one though, cause _that_ one takes all kinds of liberties with the facts. I guess they’re trying to tell a good story or whatever, but some of it’s a little flowery.”

 

Derek stares at him til Stiles slowly puts the book back on its stack. “Uh, sorry, I just...” He pulls a face and looks as awkward as ever as he makes movements like he’s about to leave Derek to it.

 

“No! It’s ok!” Derek says suddenly. He doesn’t want Stiles to go. It’s been a few days since movie night and. Y’know. Stiles puts his bag back down and Derek realises he’s almost touching Stiles’ hand, and the whole thing seems really needy and weird, begging Stiles not to leave. Stiles feels it too, clearly, cause he’s looking at Derek in surprise.  

 

Derek looks at the stack before picking the top handful up and thrusting it at him. “Which one is the best?” 

 

It takes a second for Stiles to stop looking kinda freaked out and respond with an answer, going through the stack and pulling out three that he says are his mainstays. “I have a couple others at home if you wanna come over and borrow them,” he says, picking at the loose plastic cover of one of the books. “Though if I knew what you were looking for I’d be able to help more, probably.” 

 

Derek can’t go to Stiles’ house. There’s no fucking way. No. Fucking. Way. 

 

“Sure,” he says. 

 

-

 

Derek wavers on the front porch, cause he thinks for one fading moment that perhaps he can just wait there and Stiles’ll bring him the books. But Stiles just walks into the house, leaving Derek there as he chatters about lacrosse and some assignment he has, not even looking back to notice that Derek’s not behind him, so Derek takes a brief, long-suffering sigh before following him in.

 

Stiles comes out of the kitchen and hands Derek a glass of orange juice. 

 

Derek looks at it and tries to shut out neanderthal thoughts of BONDED GIVE FOOD, smiling wanly and saying thanks like a normal person. He has vague hopes of at least staying downstairs, but Stiles does his walking off expecting to be followed thing again, and Derek trails along behind him up the stairs. 

 

Stiles’ room isn’t so bad for a teenage boy, really. There’s no dirty underwear on the floor or stacks of unwashed plates moulding up the place, but there’s still the very specific scent of _Stiles_ filling the space, and the bed with its pillows that Derek kind of wants to bury his face in. He tries to breathe lightly, curtailing the deep heaving breaths he wants to take, that his hind-brain is _telling_ him to take. 

 

Not that it helps. It’s kinda making him dizzy, actually. 

 

Stiles stops rooting around on his desk to say something, stopping when he sees that Derek’s kinda freaking out. “Dude, are you alright? Are you having a panic attack?” 

 

Derek shakes his head. “No, I’m fine,” he replies, trying to think of some legitimate reason for his strange behaviour. Not that he’s ever acted particularly normally around Stiles, but usually he manages to hide it behind gruffness and glares. “Just a little wary of your dad is all.” 

 

“Why are you breathing so weird? My Dad’s ok, don’t worry about it. Do you have asthma?” 

Derek shakes his head but actually, he kind of is breathing weird now he comes to think of it, like all the Stiles smell in the room means there’s not enough actual oxygen, and Stiles puts his hand on Derek’s waist to prod him towards the bed, saying “Sit down, man, relax, it’s ok. Just breathe, you’re ok,” which only makes it worse. 

 

“I’m fine,” Derek tries to say again as he sits, jostling the covers and making a cloud of invisible scent waft up around him. He manages one deep breath and another with Stiles’ hand on his shoulder, which both helps and hinders him. He’s starting to breathe normally but it’s at the cost of whatever this air is _doing_ to him, all this _Stiles_ seeping in through his pores and his lungs. 

 

He shakes his head again and swallows. What _was_ that? “Sorry. I’m fine. Sorry if I scared you.” 

 

“It’s ok dude,” Stiles says. “Between my panic attacks and Scott’s asthma I’m sorta used to dealing with respiratory tract issues. Got a book on that too, actually. Mine started after my mom died but I got ‘em under control the last couple years. Sometimes I randomly get them still. But you don’t have to worry about my dad, he won’t be home for like four hours. You want anything? You can lie down if you want.” 

 

When Derek looks at him blankly, trying to work out what part of that heap of information intrigues him the most, Stiles awkwardly lets go of his shoulder and shrugs before going back to the bookshelf. There’s a sudden coldness on his shoulder, and Derek tries not to do something embarrassing like whine in the back of his throat. 

 

“You never said what you’re looking for.” Stiles turns around with three books, furred with post-its of varying sizes and colours. “They’re all colour coded. Blue’s for stuff about the moon, yellow’s for injuries and cures an’ stuff, green’s for other magic-y things.” 

They’re well worn and reek of Stiles. 

 

Derek takes them and runs his fingers over the post-its. “What are the other ones?”

 

Stiles snorts. “Pink’s for _‘bonding.’_ ” He rolls his eyes. “Scott’s convinced him and Allison are like, meant to be. Star cross’d lovers, the whole thing.”

 

\----

 

Derek acts skeptical at the same time as pressing for more information, which Stiles is only too happy to give. He explains how bonds are supposed to be connected to the planets rather than the moon, so maybe all that Aquarius rising crap from the 1970s has something to it. 

 

Derek shouldn’t be surprised, since his life is pretty much dictated by a celestial body already. Goddamn planets, messing things up. He laughs, or as near as he can when he’s in curious scowl-mode, more of a huff really. A loud exhale that sounds vaguely amused.

 

“Hey man, that’s what it says,” Stiles flips to another page of one of the books, sitting beside Derek to show him a simple drawing of a wolf and a girl under the moon - the wolf is curled around the girl, who’s sleeping peacefully. It’s one of the really old books, smelling like dust and knowledge. 

 

“Scott was all about this picture when we found it,” Stiles says. “Bonding’s usually only between two wolves but according to ‘legend’,” - Stiles makes air quotes with one hand - “if the planets align just right it can be a human and a wolf. Or two humans I guess, though neither of them would know it.”

 

Derek’s been trying to move away as subtly as he can, but he’s already right at the edge of the bed and Stiles is somehow still pressed to his side. He’s warm and comforting and way too inviting, and all this bond news is only making things worse, because it _is_ a bond and what Derek intuitively knew before is actually for real now. Him and Stiles are bonded. Or. Well, he’ll have to read the books and find out more, but the longer he stays here in this cocoon of Stiles’ scent, the sooner he’ll do something undignified like press his face into Stiles’ stupidly inviting neck and bite, or at the very least inhale loudly and for as long as he can. Which would have to be forever, because they’re bonded.

 

Which is the kind of fucked up logic that Derek’s brain is coming up with. He needs to get the hell out ASAP.

 

“Can I borrow these?” he says, standing up and making Stiles practically fall into the space he vacated. “I can give them back tomorrow,” he adds, because some hindbrain voice has decided to make a follow up date without his say so.

 

“Oh, uh, sure. Go ahead. I kinda wanted to ask you some werewolf stuff, actually, but it’s not urgent I guess.” 

Derek swallows and glances at the window, weighs up just jumping through it, glass and all, as his quickest means of escape before deciding that would be too much, probably. That it’d be best to sack up and go out the front door like a normal person. 

 

So he does just that. Stiles calls out, “Bye, then,” when Derek’s halfway down the stairs but by then he’s in full flight mode. 

 

\---

 

Back at the loft, Derek reads the rest of the book with the illustration in it. Ok, he spends a good portion of that time doing weird stuff like smelling the post-its and maybe tentatively licking them, but he does get it read. The book is so old and uses such flowery language that it’s not all that clear, but Derek gathers that there’s not much in the way of breaking a bond beyond the death of one of the bonded pair. There’s no word on how one might try to break a bond themselves in any of the books, though plenty of tales of a jealous third party trying to ruin things to win over one of the pair. 

 

There are some stories about bonded turning against one another and souring the bond even if never fully breaking it, and Derek considers that perhaps if he just played things right he might be able to make Stiles hate him and make all this stop. Though the thought of Stiles hating him is shapelessly painful.

 

There’s also a little about distance being an issue, a sweet tale of a bonded pair being separated for ‘many moons’ before finding each other via only the power of their bond. Some kind of celestial GPS that Derek can’t help but file away as potentially useful even if it is at the cost of, y’know, his freedom.

 

The book is helpful but ultimately frustrating. It offers no practical solutions nor advice for living with a bond, though expecting it to had been a hollow hope at best. There’s nothing about why people are bonded, only the magical wonderousness of wolves being 2gethr 4evr. Derek swears, and he’d throw the book across the room if it didn’t belong to Stiles and have post-its that smelled like his room.

 

Instead, Derek places it very carefully on Stiles’ couch cushion along with the others. 

 

-

 

The next day, Derek looks at the books some more, wonders if this is what people with Bibles do, reading and re-reading something they must know off by heart. They smell the same and feel just like they did last night, but they’re a comfort to hold and go over again and again.

 

It’s bad.

 

Derek could go to Deaton. If anyone will have some get out of jail free card it’ll be him, but there’s something stopping him. Mostly, Derek tells himself, it’s that he doesn’t want the embarrassment. Of all people to be bonded to anyone, Derek Hale should be the least likely. He’s long been a lone wolf and he’s used to it. He likes it, really. Sure it’s not the heaps of warmth that pack is meant to be, or the sense of belonging he’s almost forgotten, but it’s _his_ world that he’s carved out here. It might not be much but it’s all his. He gets to decide who comes and goes.

 

And he kind of wishes Stiles would come. He’s annoying but he’s… he’s Stiles. 

 

Derek eyes his phone for a good long while, even picks it up and starts composing a message - **movie night again?** he writes, deleting, retyping it with a smiley face. Deleting that and tossing the phone onto the coffee table. It settles in one of the door’s panels and glares at him, calls him a traitor and a liar and a baby. 

 

Derek kind of kicks around doing some chin ups and pressups and whatever else he can think of to burn off some energy. Then he looks around and sort of deflates a little. His apartment is so sad looking. He really ought to get an actual coffee table one of these days. 

 

He sits down again and looks at his phone again. It’s only 1pm. 

 

He wishes there was something to hunt. Something to really get his teeth into, both figuratively and literally. Run and pounce and _bite_. Crunch into something living til it’s not living anymore. Just something little, like a squirrel or a rat, but something to quell the awkward spark in his belly that’s threatening to consume him whole. He feels like if he let it, the tinfoil feeling he has in his teeth would take over, til all his bones are rattling inside his flesh.

 

He jumps up again and goes to the fridge, if only to blast himself with The Smell and knock some sense into his stupid animal brain. 

 

It really is vile, and Derek lets it wash over him like rain, some kind of reverse-Shawshank thing where the filth covers the weird purity he feels when he thinks about Stiles. It still reminds of him of Stiles anyway though, of how when the two of them were standing right here the other night, the smell was _different_ and it’s not til now that he really thinks about that. The Smell’s the same as it ever was, so it had to have been different because he was smelling it _anew_. He was smelling it from Stiles’ perspective somehow. It’s a leap but it’s the only thing that makes sense: the bond.

 

So he cleans it. Derek puts on some rubber gloves, takes the trash can and tosses everything into it, the expired milk, the weird jars of godknowswhat, the congealed thing of baking soda. The thing from which the Smell’s been radiating is a lump at the back, and Derek half expects to turn it over and find maggots crawling around in it or something equally disagreeable, but all that is unleashed is a fresh wave of odor. Derek grits his teeth and goes forth, gets the offending _thing_ out of there, into the bin and then all the way down to the big trash cans outside. 

 

The whole apartment reeks when he comes back in, so he scrubs the fridge clean with all manner of chemicals, some of which are supernatural or enchanted or whatever it is that’s under the sink. 

 

All of it confuses his senses enough that he can’t really smell Stiles anymore, at least here in the kitchen. There’s a comfort in that, albeit one of ripping a bandaid off; a pain that’s the marker of something better in the long run. Get rid of the smell of everything and everyone and start afresh. Maybe he can’t kill the bond but he _can_ stop encouraging it. 

 

He cleans the rest of the apartment. Sweeps the floors and washes every piece of soft furnishing he can get his hands on. The couch cushions can’t be removed but they can be flipped over, so Derek does that, puts the books near the door and does his best to get Stiles’ scent out of the apartment as best he can til all he can smell is the burning chemicals that he’s cleaned everything with. 

 

It’s good. It’s nice to feel the space anew. It’s been so long since it’s had a real clean that it feels as if Derek’s marked his territory in reverse. _My_ space, he thinks. My home and only mine.

 

He ignores the urge to flip the couch cushion back over and heads out to the store for groceries, like a regular person. He buys milk and juice and bread. He buys GQ magazine. He buys a carton of ice cream. Normal things like a normal guy. He even smiles at the checkout lady.

 

The last of the fridge funk has dissipated when Derek gets back in, so he fills the fridge with enough food for a pack (and Derek isn’t thinking about that, ok. He’s not thinking about having a pack and getting a bed big enough for them all to sleep in and a dinner table that they’d all eat at and a couch they’d all snuggle on to watch the Notebook with Stiles in the middle of them all, that’s just crazy and dumb and ridiculous) and then he takes a shower. 

 

Obviously he jerks off, because if his brain can’t be trusted right now, his dick certainly can’t be. When he was in the store his cock twitched at the sight of some of those little arrow post-its, which is just fucking weird. Sure, he bought them (and put them on top of the books near the door) but whatever, there was a new colour and maybe they’d be useful. 

 

WHATEVER.

 

He jerks off and it doesn’t matter what he thinks about. Then he sits on his couch and reads an article about the proper way to wear a bow tie. 

 

His eyes flash red when there’s a knock at the door. 

 

He manages to feign nonchalance as he opens it, even though he knows before he’s even at the door that it’s Stiles. He can smell him sure, but he can also _feel_ him. It’s as if the bond (ugh) has magnetised the iron in his blood and Stiles is true north.

 

“What do you want?” Derek asks, eyebrows knitted together. He wants to - he wants to do a lot of things. So he stands there and does none of them. 

 

Stiles peers around him and grins lopsidedly. “Did you _clean_?” He doesn’t wait for an answer before slipping past Derek and into the apartment, whistling at the dearth of dustbunnies. 

 

Derek huffs and closes the door. He can already feel his mask beginning to crack. Any second now he’s gonna just grab the kid and bury his face in his hair or his neck or god knows where. He’s gonna confess everything and tell Stiles to just _stay_ , ok? Just stay here where he can keep an eye on him because it’s not _safe_ otherwise. And he’s meant to be making Stiles hate him! A thousand things which are all mutually exclusive except it’s imperative that Derek does them _all_.

 

But mostly the smelling thing. Derek just wants to dive into Stiles and swim in his scent. 

 

But then what? 

 

Derek’s been thinking a lot about ‘then what’, even as he’s been chasing it away. None of the scenarios he’s come up with work out well. There’s the one where Stiles runs away and tells Scott everything, gets the Argents involved and generally ruins his life. There’s the one where Stiles doesn’t run away because Derek won’t let him, which plays out pretty much the same but possibly with a prison stay (or death by Argent). There’s the one where Stiles thinks Derek’s joking and they both laugh about it before Derek buries himself alive. 

 

Basically he’s thought about it and none of it is good. 

 

“Let yourself in, why don’t you,” he manages, with a frown that Stiles doesn’t even see. 

 

“I brought you some more books,” Stiles explains, running a finger along the top of the TV before rubbing his fingers together. He shucks off his backpack and digs around in it before producing a stack of books with the same post-its sticking out of them. 

 

“Thanks,” Derek replies, and he sounds constipated even to himself. Stiles sort of fidgets where he stands, biting his lip and awkwardly juggling the books and the bag between his hands as he keeps his eyes on Derek. He holds them out and Derek steps forward to take them, trying not to breathe too deeply. The books smell even better than the other ones did. 

 

“Did you want something?” 

 

Stiles digs in his bag again and pulls out a handful of DVDs. “Movie night?” he says quietly, biting his lip again in some weird play of… what is that? Flirtation? No, there’s no way. He’s probably just confused.

 

Derek frowns again and tries to think up some excuse that isn’t just ‘I don’t like movies’, but then Stiles adds, “I ordered pizza already. Everybody likes pizza.” 

Before Derek can reply, Stiles sits himself down on the couch (and Derek tries not to get too excited by the fact that Stiles is sitting in his _special spot_ ) and flips over one of the DVDs to read the back, not looking in Derek’s direction or giving him any kind of an out.

 

Derek sighs and goes to the kitchen, putting the books on the coffee table as he goes. “Do you want a drink?” he calls over his shoulder, bracing himself as he opens the fridge as he’s been conditioned to do after so long living with The Smell. Stiles appears behind him and claps him on the back. “You did clean! The smell is gone!”

Derek freezes as Stiles slides his arm down and then around Derek’s waist as he moves in front of him to check out the fridge’s contents. “Ooh grape juice,” he says, grabbing one of the cartons that Derek bought earlier.

 

Derek mentally adds ‘grape juice’ to the list of things Stiles likes before very deliberately putting that list into a box and shoving it into a mental closet. He stays standing there with the ghost of Stiles’ arm around him even after he’s started rooting through the cupboards for a glass. He misses The Smell now, wishing there was something to concentrate on which wasn’t the echo of Stiles’ touch.

 

“You want some?” Stiles asks from behind him. Derek forces himself to turn and nod, grunting an affirmative. This is so much worse than it was before. Why did he clean?! There’s no smells to think about other than STILES STILES STILES, every atom of his body lit up by his presence. It’s not even a good smell really, just laundry detergent and deodorant and toothpaste on top of the usual teenage smells of sweat and skin and permanent low-grade horniness.

 

Derek doesn’t think about the last thing, tries to work out the brands of that toothpaste and deodorant like mental sudoku to distract himself from the fact that it’s _not_ just any old teenage boy standing around, invading his space and drinking his juice, but the one he’s meant to be _bonded to forever._

 

_Forever!_

 

Stiles hands him some juice and wanders back out to stink up the couch.

 

“So I was thinking Die Hard, to y’know, re-masculinize ourselves after the last movie. I have the ‘quintilogy’. Or we also have Con Air or The Rock. Can’t go wrong with Nic Cage! Well, unless he’s in one of his bad movies. He’s kinda hit or miss, you know? ‘The beeeeeees!!’” 

 

He looks at Derek, hands still in the air from his Wicker Man impression waiting for an answer as Derek sits down and picks up one of the books. “I don’t care.” 

 

Stiles narrows his eyes. “You don’t _care_? Are you telling me I could put on A Good Day To Die Hard right now and you’d be cool with it?”

 

Derek shrugs. Honestly he could do without watching an elderly Bruce Willis phoning in floppy oneliners for two hours but Stiles is _looking_ at him and it’s _hard_. “I’d be cool with that.” 

“Have you seen it before?” 

“Yep.” 

“So you’ve _seen_ this terrible movie yet you’re like, totally cool with watching it again?” 

“Why did you bring it if you don’t even like it?” Derek says. He doesn’t say ‘Why are you here? Get out of my house. Leave me alone.’ Even though he _should_. Derek should definitely do that, but the whole Make Stiles Hate Me plan has kinda faded away now that he’s _here_. All Derek wants to do now is wind Stiles up a little and watch him watch this awful movie as he eats pizza and makes the couch smell nice.

 

Stiles opens his mouth in rebuttal and then just kind of huffs, blinking at Derek. “It’s a box set.” 

 

Derek keeps looking at him and Stiles rolls his eyes. “We’re watching Die Hard _one_ ,” he decides, and Derek lets himself smile at Stiles’ back as he fumbles with the DVD player. 

 

As the unskippable pre-roll ads tell them not to pirate DVDs, Derek flips through the books Stiles brought, looking for more news about bonding. He can feel Stiles’ eyes on him, can tell he wants to ask but is holding himself back from prying. It’s sort of charming to witness Stiles trying to be _proper_.

 

“So what is it you’ve been looking for?” he asks in the end, as Derek quietly turns a page. 

 

“Moon phases,” Derek lies. “Wanted to figure out if there was something going on.”

Stiles nods along until he frowns. “Is there?” 

“I don’t know.” Derek looks at Stiles and then pointedly back to the book in hand. “I haven’t read the books yet.” 

Stiles is done with being polite, apparently, bulldozing right on through, as if Derek’s been able to concentrate on the actual content of the book anyway. “Scott hasn’t mentioned anything. Is something going on? Is there some kinda blood moon or something?”

“Blood moon?” 

“Like in The Craft?” 

 

As the DVD menu loops the same bit of music a few dozen times, Derek explains that _The Craft_ isn’t exactly canonical lycanthropic lore, Stiles sucking up Derek’s information like a sponge. Derek’s kind of proud of the lie about what he’s actually researching, since it seems to have worked for now and he’ll hopefully have some time to look into the bond later anyway, though he’s really not thinking about that right now - he’s focussed on Stiles’ mouth and his eyelashes and the movement of his hands as he nods and hmms and picks at the frayed cuff of his sweater.

 

By the time the food arrives, Stiles is halfway down a second page of notes, having launched into an impromptu interview of sorts. Derek carefully moves the rest of the books off the table before putting the food down, mindful of getting grease or sauce anywhere near them. He’s never been precious with his own things but the books don’t belong to him. He can’t mess up Stiles’ stuff.

 

“I’m gonna have a beer,” Derek decides, even though he’s already kinda punch drunk from the bond. He’s feeling cocky - Stiles has been here nearly an hour and he hasn’t accidentally grabbed him once. “You want one?” 

 

“Aren’t you scared of my dad?” Stiles asks, following Derek into the kitchen again, ostensibly for plates, though apparently with the added bonus of getting in Derek’s way as much as possible. He grabs his own beer from the fridge and tries to twist off the cap, not so subtly wincing as he realises that the bottle does not have a twist off cap. 

 

Derek hands him a bottle opener and hides another smile as best he can. 

 

Stiles puts on the movie and they eat half their food quickly. It’s delicious and warming and satisfying, and Derek kind of forgets himself for a while, letting himself swim in the warmth of his bondmate being so close and safe by his side, with plentiful food and no immediate threats around them. 

 

They make their way through another beer apiece, and maybe it’s that that has him migrating closer to the centre of the couch. Maybe the bond is literally a magnet, cause Stiles seems to have migrated away from his corner too. They sort of lean towards one another, Stiles’ bony shoulder digging into Derek’s in the most perfect way. John McClane runs around getting grimier and grimier whilst Derek and Stiles get closer and closer, til Stiles is kind of resting against Derek’s side with Derek’s arm around the back of the couch, not quite around Stiles’ shoulders but almost. He can’t let himself actively touch Stiles, not skin-to-skin, but this is ok. This is nice.

 

Derek’s so focussed on the warmth radiating off of Stiles and the strange hum of connection the bond seems to make that he doesn’t notice when the movie ends til Stiles sits up and looks at him. He doesn’t move far, just turns so they’re facing one another.

 

“You wanna watch another one?” Derek asks, transfixed by Stiles’ lips. A tongue peeps out to wet them, and Derek’s expecting Stiles to say ‘I should go,’ or ‘Huh, how did this happen?’ but instead he leans forward just enough to press those lips against Derek’s.

 

They’re at a weird angle and there’s the Die Hard DVD menu music going on in the background again, but Derek’s somewhere else all of a sudden, lost to their kiss.

 

It’s like heat against cold or light against dark, radiating out from their lips’ point of contact and filling Derek with soft warmth. He can feel it filling Stiles too, can feel the way his own lips feel to Stiles, the way his own arm is warm against his shoulder and how comfortable it is. How much Stiles wants this too.

 

There’s maybe three heartbeats that Derek gets to enjoy it before his brain catches up to what’s happening and fights through to point out just how dangerous this is. Derek caring about Stiles is one thing - all the crap Stiles gets himself into, Derek can take care of that. But the other way round? If Stiles likes him back that means he’ll get himself into _more_ trouble, get himself more hurt. He’ll cause himself all sorts of damage trying to keep up with the mess that follows Derek around and that’s not ok. That’s not ok at all. 

Derek’s supposed to be making Stiles hate him, not fall in love with him. They’re still kissing so Derek knows that’s what it is - not all the way but almost. Stiles is as close to being in love with Derek as Derek is to falling in love with Stiles and it’s fucking terrifying. 

 

“You should go,” Derek says from across the room, having launched himself away from Stiles. Stiles is half fallen back on the couch, looking dazed. 

“What _was_ that?” 

Derek clenches his fists and paces. This is terrible. The worst. 

 

“Derek, what was that? What’s going on?” 

He sounds scared, and Derek wants to - fucking _needs_ to - stop that right now. Stiles shouldn’t be scared if he can help it and goddamn if the bond isn’t stronger now. He has to mentally tell his feet not to walk him over there. 

“Don’t just stand there! I knew there was something! When I touched you in my bedroom. There was something then! I told myself it was an static shock but I knew it wasn’t! Is it a bond? Derek, are we bonded?” 

 

Derek makes himself shake his head, but he can’t force himself to say anything. He can’t lie to Stiles. He has a feeling Stiles would know if he was lying anyway. 

 

Stiles stands up and sets his jaw. “It is, isn’t it? I can… I can feel it. I thought I just had a crush on you, but it’s more than that.” He walks towards Derek, who’s rooted to the spot. “We’re bonded, aren’t we?” 

 

Derek swallows and looks at Stiles’ mouth once he’s close. Up to his eyes and back to those lips again, studies the softness that he can feel himself being pulled towards. It takes everything in him not to lean forward and kiss them again, but Stiles grabs his arm instead, pulls the sleeve of Derek’s shirt up and slowly, very deliberately, brushes one finger down the bare skin of Derek’s arm. 

 

It feels as if there’s a light trail left in its wake. So much so that Derek’s surprised that there isn’t anything there. It feels like Stiles is painting him, and Stiles feels it too judging by the way he does it with another finger and then the other hand, eventually running his palm down the length of Derek’s forearm and softly gasping. 

 

“I can feel you,” he says in wonder. “I can feel myself but it’s _from_ _you_.” He lifts his hands away from Derek’s skin and Derek makes a whimper of loss, chasing them with his own hands til they’re just sort of standing there, holding their hands together and looking down at them. 

 

He can feel it when Stiles is about to say it, something about sex, obviously, arousal swelling in him as he thinks over the implications of what this means. That gives Derek the push he needs to let go and back away again. 

 

“I can’t,” Derek says, pulling his hands away and holding them at his sides, fists clenched. He can’t even look at Stiles, but he can feel the pain coming off of him like a wave. “It’s not safe.” 

“Safe?!” Stiles laughs. “The fuck are you talking about, Derek? Since when is anything in Beacon Hills safe?” 

“It’s not-” Derek manages, but he makes the mistake of looking up and seeing Stiles so close again, looking like he has all the answers. He probably does have all the answers, and that’s what pulls Derek back in, cause for all Stiles is slight and easy to underestimate, he’s so sure of himself sometimes, and this is one of those times. Derek watches his own hand move to cup Stiles’ jaw, feels the jolt of warmth that Stiles feels from his own hand. He brushes a thumb over the curve of Stiles’ cheek and knows it’s over. 

 

“You never brought anyone else,” Derek says, tracing the line of Stiles’ bottom lip. So soft. “When you came over.” 

 

“Had a crush,” Stiles explains, smiling slightly and darting out his tongue to wet the pad of Derek’s thumb. It’s a tiny movement but Derek feels it in about eight different ways. Stiles is looking at him like he knows, and of course he knows. 

 

“How’m I gonna keep you safe?” Derek asks. “Everyone around me-” 

“It’s ok. We’ll figure it out,” Stiles cuts in. “None of that seems that important, though.” 

Derek watches his own thumb press against Stiles’ lips til they open and pull him in. Watches and feels it all. Gingerly, Stiles’ hands reach out and rest against Derek’s stomach, long fingers fanning out. None of that stuff _does_ seem important, and Derek struggles to remember how it could be anything other than noise. 

 

It’s all one swift movement, the decision to move in and pull Stiles close, run fingers through his hair with claws just barely held back. Derek can feel Stiles weighing up the pros and cons of jumping up, wrapping himself around him, so Derek helps him on his way, cupping his ass and coaxing him, humming against Stiles’ neck when he jumps and wraps himself perfectly around Derek like a glove. Stiles smells like home, and he can feel Stiles’ appreciation of his own scent, of all of this. 

 

“Don’t fight it,” Stiles says quietly, cause he can feel Derek’s hesitation. “Please.” 

Derek moans at the ‘please’, because Stiles doesn’t plead for much, he’s too forthright to do much begging, but it’s so raw that Derek can do nothing but hold on tighter, sink his teeth into the skin of Stiles’ neck. Not so hard or sharp as to hurt, but enough to feel the heat of Stiles’ blood and the pulse of his life beating beneath the skin. 

 

“Fuck me,” Stiles whispers into Derek’s ear. “Please.” 

Derek groans again and tightens his grip on the way to the bedroom, though Stiles is so tight around him he could probably let go and Stiles would stay right where he is.

 

“Tell me what you want,” Derek says once Stiles is on the bed, Derek kneeling over him with his hand back on that soft, perfect skin. 

Stiles’ eyes range over Derek’s face, and his mouth slowly curves into a wicked grin. “Will you suck my dick?” he asks, like there’s no way such a thing could actually happen.

 

Derek kisses him - going in for a fast peck of lips against lips but then staying there, tongues dancing together for a long, wonderful moment. He can feel Stiles hard against his jeans-clad thigh, knows Stiles can feel him feeling it when he shifts his hips just so. 

He doesn’t say anything as he moves down the bed, running the backs of his fingers against the hard ridge of Stiles’ cock through his pants to see if he can feel it. He can - a golden echo of sensation, all want and need and lust, shot with an undercurrent of something deeper. The love that the bond is meant to build on. It’s heavy and strong and terrifying, and Stiles picks up on the fear that buzzes through Derek. “It’s ok,” he says. “Don’t worry about it.” 

 

 _Why is it so easy to do as Stiles says?_ Derek wonders in the back of his mind. How can this soft, sweet, defenceless human make Derek feel safer than he’s felt in as long as he can remember with just an ‘it’s ok’?

 

Derek can feel his own nervous energy thrumming back at himself as he gingerly unzips Stiles’ fly. He knows, can tell from the bond that it’s the first time someone’s done this to Stiles, that he’s the first to unwrap him like the prize he is. The flesh of his cock is warm through his underwear when Derek presses his cheek there, closes his eyes and just breathes it in. Stiles threads his fingers into Derek’s hair, stroking him softly even as his pulse is racing. 

 

“No one’s ever done this before,” Derek says, not quite a question, focusing his gaze on the trail of hair revealed when he pushes Stiles’ shirt up. He runs his hand over it, warmth almost glowing between them. 

“No,” Stiles replies, voice barely a breath. “No one.” 

Derek leans forward and kisses his belly, soft and smooth and wonderful, pulling away so he can watch his hands as they pull down Stiles’ underwear and jeans all at once, letting Stiles’ cock spring free. 

“If I come,” Stiles says fast, stopping Derek in his tracks to look up at his panicked face. “If I come, uh. I’m sorry, is all.” Derek can feel his embarrassment like a warm orange haze and it makes him grin. 

“You don’t have to be sorry.” He pauses, because he realises how true it is that: “I just want you to feel good.” 

Stiles tips his head back against the pillows and nudges his hips forward. “Well, feel free.” 

 

Derek laughs as he positions himself, braced with one arm on the bed with the other running over Stiles’ hip and down his softly furred thigh. It’s all so easy suddenly, to let go of the fear and the dread he’d been holding onto and _focus_ , and it feels like the first time he’s really been able to concentrate on something, someone else, in forever. It feels like clarity, like he’s swimming in the clearest water when he grips Stiles and dips his head, takes him into his mouth. 

 

Stiles takes a long, deep, gasping breath, and bucks up towards him, but Derek’s there to keep him steady, hold onto him. “Oh,” he says, “That’s. _Oh_.” 

Derek smiles, mouth still wrapped around Stiles’ cock, and he goes down deeper, feeling just how good it is for Stiles, this echo chamber of sensation. 

“You like it,” Stiles gasps, when Derek closes his eyes and starts losing himself to it. “Right?” 

 

“I like _you_ ,” Derek says, cause that’s easier than explaining what he’s liking right now, cause he can’t even explain that to himself. He doesn’t need to though, since Stiles can feel it. 

 

“Put your hands in my hair,” Derek says, after holding onto the base of Stiles’ dick and licking the head, long and slow. Stiles moans and does it, fingers tightening when Derek closes his mouth around him again, sucks in pulses, flicks his tongue just so. Stiles gets it, applying the lightest pressure at first and then moving Derek when he goes so easily, and Derek can feel Stiles’ pleasure like it’s his own, and it’s better, warmer, less urgent, just something he wants and knows he can have so long as he keeps on, works Stiles through this. 

 

When he comes, Stiles lets go of Derek’s hair, but Derek keeps going with the same pace Stiles set, and Derek feels like he implodes just as as Stiles explodes, a give and take that’s better than anything he’s ever known. He works Stiles through it, coaxing every last bloom of heat out of him before swallowing, kissing his way back up Stiles’ perfect stomach, running a hand up his shirt to hold on to him, skin to skin as he lays down beside him.

 

Derek can feel Stiles’ body reverberating still, like he’s shivering but without moving. Like his insides are shaking. “Shh,” he soothes. “You’re ok. I’ve got you.” 

“That was. I mean. I.” 

“I know,” Derek smiles, spooning up against Stiles. “I could feel it.” 

Stiles turns his head from staring at the ceiling to look at him. After a second of looking at one another, Stiles says, “You have a boner.” 

 

Derek looks down as if in surprise. 

“Gimme a minute and I’ll...” Stiles makes a vague gesture with one hand, but it seems to exhaust him. 

“It’s fine,” Derek says. “I don’t need anything. I feel good right now, like this.” 

Stiles nods, eyes back on the ceiling. “Kay. In a bit though?” 

 

Derek presses a chaste kiss against his cheek. “In a bit,” he agrees. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


End file.
